


It Had To Be You

by mydearcorvo



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 09:07:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2019261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydearcorvo/pseuds/mydearcorvo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The glass shattering under him makes Steve gasp and jerk awake, throwing his arms out as he lurches upright, breathing heavily and raggedly. He looks at his hands as he collects himself, steadies his breathing and swallows hard, watches them shake and tremble before he curls his fingers, makes tight fists that he shoves against his eyes. Anything to stop the tears, anything to keep himself from crying.</p>
<p>Under his gasping, he can hear music."</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Had To Be You

The record player had been an impulse buy when Steve first woke up and situated himself back into place in this new world. He had seen it in the window of a small music shop on one of his many walks through the city, a little red sign that said “Sale!” settled against its wooden side. The cover was clear plastic, the knobs were chrome, and it was three hundred dollars. The first thought that ran through his head was “too expensive”, but he lingered in front of that window, letting people push past him and bump hard into his shoulder without a single apology, and figured his new government employer could afford this one opulent gesture.

 

The records themselves were actually sought out for. The music shop he had bought the record player in didn't have that large of a variety of records, not the ones he wanted anyway, so, with a little bit of difficulty, Steve found them online, and had them in his hands within a week. And of course, he listened to them nearly every night, listened to them as he drew and scribbled mindlessly on loose sheets of paper, pamphlets, receipts, anything he could get his hands on and put a pen to. He listened to the records he wished he could have had when he was younger, and he listened to the records he was lucky enough to have.

 

The future was strange and Steve felt so incredibly out of place, so alone here, but at least, he had his music. His tastes grew as he got used to the new world around him, and he found classical artists, and soul artists, and several artists he didn't quite know the genre of and sought them out on records. The scratch of the needle was comforting and familiar, and it filled his small apartment and his chest with nostalgia. Phillip Glass was a particular favorite of his. Gillian Welch was saddening and calming all at once. It helped him, to lose himself in all of this new music.

 

Of course, when he met the Avengers, he had been met with an onslaught of music he never even considered. Clint liked country and what was called "pop punk", Tony was an old rock fan. Natasha shared more of his tastes, sending him off with classical music that he hadn't yet found. He was pretty sure one particular piece had a cannon going off in the background, it caught him by surprise one day, nearly made him scream and drop his bowl of cereal. Bruce didn't really listen to music often, nothing with lyrics or abrupt change of pace and tone, which Steve could understand and respect.

 

And there were, of course, the records he had listened to, with Bucky, when he was a boy. He had records of Billie Holiday and Django Reinhardt, the Ink Spots and the Mills Brothers. They all reminded him of summer nights with Bucky in their small apartment, trying to fight the heat, dressed as little as possible. Bucky knew nearly all of the words to Holiday's songs (not that that meant he could sing all that well), Steve had songs by the Ink Spots down to the tee, and it seemed to lighten the weight on their shoulders. Work was hard, Bucky spending hours at the docks, Steve delivering groceries all day for older customers, but the night was theirs, where they could croon and caterwaul their favorite tunes, until, of course, the neighbors to either side and below them banged on the walls and ceiling and told them to shut their mouths.

 

Sometimes, instead of singing and being yelled at by the neighbors, Bucky wanted to dance with Steve, would jump up and hold his hand out to the smaller man, say it would give him a little practice for when he had a pretty dame on his arm finally, and Steve would smile up at Bucky and take his hand with a laugh. Tell the older man he had two left feet, what kinda lady would want to dance with him? Bucky wouldn’t say anything at that, no snark, no sarcasm, just pull him in and take the lead as Django’s haphazard plucking slowed to something soft. They could easily recognize the tune of I Can’t Give You Anything but Love, and it seemed to Steve they always danced to this particular song.

 

It was always the song that Bucky held him hard and close, where he slowed his steps and pressed his cheek to the top of Steve’s head, fingers spreading over the small of his back, and Steve could close his eyes and try his best to not step on Bucky's toes. He could close his eyes and lay his head on his best friend's chest, listen to his heart be strongly and surely while his own jumped and stuttered. They could forget the heat like this, could forget that they were poor, barely making it day by day. They could be young. They could be carefree. It was as gentle as Bucky would ever allow himself to be with Steve back then, until the song was over. When the song was over, Bucky would pull away all too fast, and always, Steve always tried to fight back the disappointment that bubbled up in his chest like a hard bout of coughing. And always, Steve would fail.

 

Now, in his small SHIELD issued apartment, Steve couldn't bring himself to listen to those particular records.

 

~

 

It's been four months since the Potomac incident. Steve's back still hurts, and he still walks with a limp, but it'll all heal in time. The physical wounds will, at the very least. The nightmares are back in full force, wake him up screaming in the night, leave him drenched in a cold sweat. The ice is back in his chest, he thought it had been slowly fading away as he adjusted to his new life, he thought he had been getting better. Natasha had helped warm him, had slipped into his life so easily and took the roll of his friend and matchmaker, and he had appreciated her companionship deeply. But she couldn’t stay with him every hour of every day, and the cold slips back, hard and heavy and unyielding, and for the first time in many years he struggles to breathe at night.

 

Ever since he saw Bucky on the highway, fought him in the helicarrier, he's hardly slept for fear of the nightmares. He sees Bucky's face in every one of them. Sees the face that used to be all smug smiles and flirtatious grins contorted in anger and fear and pain and confusion, everything, it was there and it was ugly and gnarled and it drove Steve to tears. He wanted to scream, but he didn't. He couldn't. He could never forced the sound out of his mouth, it was stuck, feeling like a hard lump at the back of his throat, and all he could do, on nights like this, was drag himself up out of bed and distract himself. It rarely worked. He kept trying, though, because maybe one day, it would.

 

Tonight's nightmare is just like any other. It flits angrily between Bucky falling, and Bucky looming over him. Between Bucky screaming, falling, reaching for him, and Bucky pinning him, the knuckles of that metal arm slicked with Steve's own blood. And Steve was moving too slowly, and his words, his pleas, were caught in his throat. White and red flickered around Bucky, snow and fire and metal falling all around them. The glass shattering under him makes Steve gasp and jerk awake, throwing his arms out as he lurches upright, breathing heavily and raggedly. He looks at his hands as he collects himself, steadies his breathing and swallows hard, watches them shake and tremble before he curls his fingers, makes tight fists that he shoves against his eyes. Anything to stop the tears, anything to keep himself from crying.

 

Under his gasping, he can hear music.

 

It stops him short in the middle of a breath, and he snaps his open mouth shut with a painful click of teeth. His record player is in the small living room, set up beside the modest TV Natasha had dumped on him. Tony had offered to install surround sound speakers for him, and usually he enjoyed it, liked how the music seemed to be coming from all corners of the house as he stood in the center of the room. Now, it made his heart jump up into his throat, made it even harder to breathe as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, trying to walk on his toes and the balls of his feet as he picked up his shield. The paint was still chipped, he would have to fix that. He holds it up defensively as he makes his way slowly into the hall. All he can hear is the music, close to ending, a song he rather enjoyed by Django, and he finds no one in the living room. He checks in the kitchen too, finds all the windows are closed, just as he left them, everything untouched except his record player and records.

 

His arm drops when the record player clicks and rasps, and a new song starts. Not one he listens to often, the name is on the tip of his tongue, but he shoves it away, to the back burner of his mind, there are more important things at hand. He walks over to inspect it, and finds a slip of paper folded and set beside it. His hands start shaking again when he notices it, fingers spasming hard enough to make him drop his shield with a loud clatter.

 

It takes him a while to pick up the paper, and he almost drops it, too. He almost doesn't want to open it, the name of the song is nagging at him, and his heart is skipping and hammering hard, slamming up against his ribs, a visible pulse in his throat. The song is nearly over when he decides to unfold it, and he bites the insides of his cheek hard enough to make them bleed. The song ends on a high violin chord.

 

_Remember how we used to dance?_

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> this is the first fanfic i've written in a long time and boy is it rocky


End file.
